Wandering Child
by universallyfictional23
Summary: A young, free-spirited gypsy girl travels to Paris to see what she can uncover about her past. When she gets there, however, she stumbles upon a mystery of the supernatural nature. Completing puzzles, finding romance, and discovering her past, can she also tame the haunted soul of an Opera Ghost? (A Mystery Legends: Phantom of the Opera fanfic) (Phantom x OFC x OMC)
1. The Boy who Wrote her Name

Blades of brittle grass bent under the girl's leather soles, crunching with every step. She had initially resisted the idea of such uncomfortable shoes, but winter was well on its way and it was threatening to be a harsh one. Shifting her shawl around her, she exhaled and raised her eyes to the silver expanse above her. Though the mass of clouds promised cold, drenching rain, it would likely turn to sleet in a few weeks, perhaps even snow. She squinted at the sky in disappointment.

"Why are you scowling at the clouds?" Asked a well-loved voice.

The young woman turned her gaze to the boy trekking beside her. Offering a gentle smile, she comfortably met his eyes. They were lively, green, and wonderfully calming.

"It looks like it might rain," she stated, blinking up into the pale light again.

"Well, that _is_ what clouds do best," he noted with a chuckle.

"It might turn to snow."

The boy disagreed mildly. "Not likely. It's a bit too warm for that."

"For now." Her tone was traced with worry.

His green eyes blinked at her with gentle interest through his dark locks. He breathed a foggy sigh in the cool air.

"Isabeau, don't worry yourself. We'll reach Paris soon, I promise."

"And if we do? And if it snows too heavily to travel? What then?" She bit her lip in worry. "What will happen to you and your mother, Honorin? You'd be stranded there and Paris has a reputation for being less than friendly to gypsies. You might not have enough to..." She refused to finish that sentence.

He rested a reassuring hand on her arm.

"That won't happen," he responded firmly. "And don't you worry about us, _mon fifille_.Gypsies might not do well in cities, but we're resourceful. We'll do fine."

"I just don't want to put you and _Maman Cocotte_ through any more hardship. You've already been so generous to me."

Isabeau's warm blue eyes flicked up to the back of the wooden wagon. The paint decorating it still showed gaily despite years of weathering. It had the appearance of being well-loved.

"Don't worry yourself, _mon chérie_. This was our choice and we're happy to do it. Think of how worried we would have been had we let you make the journey by yourself! No, don't be concerned about us. It puts us at ease knowing that you're safe and warm and well-fed."

It was silent for a while after he said this. Isabeau kept her eyes on the back of the homey wagon as it lazily rumbled its way up the road. Fidgeting, she fingered her locket. It was one of the few remaining shreds of her previous life, the life she had no memory of. She was lost in her thoughts. There was so much weighing on her mind.

The mop-headed boy smiled at his friend. All too often, he had seen her get fidgety like this and he knew exactly what was going through her head. The poor girl needed a distraction.

"You know, you haven't told me what you plan to do exactly when you reach Paris," he stated. "What will you do?"

"Er... well." She faltered, uncertain. "I figured that I would visit the Opera Populaire, for one thing. Then I'd see from there."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"You can't be serious. That's all? That's your plan?" She nodded to him in meek affirmation. "What if there's nothing there?"

"It's all I've got, Honorin."

"Because of the photo of your parents?" He knew this to be true, though his young companion lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "Just because they got a photo made in front of the opera house, doesn't mean that going there will help you remember."

"You think I haven't considered that already, Honorin?!" The girl tossed her curls as she turned her head away bitterly. She was battling back worried tears. Everything he said was true and she was terrified that she will have dragged the boy and his mother all the way to Paris for naught. "B-But... what choice do I have?"

Honorin looked somber.

"Forgive me, Isabeau," he besought. "It's true. This is your only clue to your past and I daresay you have every right to pursue it. Who am I to discourage you?" He chuckled softly to himself. "Just a moment ago, I tried to convince you that we were happy to accompany you on this journey of yours, but it would seem that I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?"

She gave a light chuckle as well, before growing a bit more solemn.

" _Are_ you happy to be here? Are you really?"

Stopping in his tracks, the boy took her by the hand, warming her fingers with his. He gazed into her eyes with fondness.

"Isabeau, I _am_ happy to be here, with you." His emerald eyes were true. "I am happy if for no other reason than I can spend these last few weeks protecting and helping you, my little Isabeau, before you find out that you're the granddaughter of some countess or high-bred lady, as I'm sure you will be." One of his hands found its way to her cheek and cupped it, the wool of his fingerless gloves itchy against her skin. "But for now, before we reach Paris, you're just Isabeau, my dear little friend."

Dragging his fingers down from her face, she held them fast and kissed them once in sincerest thanks. A smile appeared on her lips for the first time since that morning.

"Thank you, Honorin. You're my angel."

Grasping tightly to each other's hands, the two continued down the road after the lone wagon.

"What will you do if... _when_ you find out who you were?" He inquired, nervousness tinging his question.

"It depends on who I was, I suppose, and if I was left anything by my parents... or if they are still alive or not," she responded pensively. "It all depends on what I find." She gave his hand a squeeze. "But I'll come back to you and _Maman Cocotte_ ," she promised. "No matter who I find, or what I remember, you two will always be family to me."

There was a handsome smile on the gypsy boy's lips.

"I'm glad."

They travelled on for a week and a half more, each day bringing them closer to both Paris and Winter. On the morn of the last full day between them and their journey's end, they awoke to a fine spread of white powder covering the ground as far as the eye could see. It was rather worrying to Isabeau and initially put her in dreary spirits, but after several words of encouragement from her companions, she regained her resolve.

After a long day's travel, they stopped for the night in a little grove just outside Paris. By noon the next day, they would be deep in the renowned city. The thought thrilled and terrified the young woman in equal parts. Needless to say, that night as they all sat around the campfire, Isabeau found herself becoming increasingly restless. The food that _Maman Cocotte_ had prepared was sitting uneasily in her stomach.

Gazing, hypnotized, into the leaping flames, she sat with her knees to her chest and her chin on her knees. She looked like a sullen ten-year-old rather than the eighteen-year-old she was.

"No need to fret, dear," _Maman Cocotte_ comforted. "I'm sure you'll find something about them... about you in Paris."

She returned the well-meant words with a grateful smile, but did not reply. After all, the kind, motherly woman _was_ a gypsy, but she was no soothsayer or medium. How could she possibly know what the future held?

As the girl remained silent, _Maman Cocotte_ and her son exchanged several wordless glances. The significance of them was plain as light.

 _Speak to her, son._

The middle-aged gypsy rose from her seat by the fire and stretched her aching joints, causing them to give a dull crack.

"I'm going to go look in on Lad," she stated with a groan. "It's not a good idea for someone with my back and knees to be still for so long. Besides, that beast has had a trying day, maybe I can cheer him with a carrot or two."

Swiveling on her heels, she turned in the direction where their cart-donkey had been tied up to a tree. Before leaving however, she flashed an insisting look at her son. She was giving him the perfect opportunity.

Once the sound of the gypsy woman's footfalls had faded, Honorin looked to Isabeau with loving eyes. It was no secret that he cared deeply for the girl and his mother did nothing to discourage his affections, neither did Isabeau for that matter.

He was just as worried about her future as she was, though in a very different way. He fretted over the thought of his precious Isabeau being swept away into a world larger than that of their little painted wagon and forgetting all about him. She had promised not to let that happen, but he still worried nonetheless.

It was quite convenient, however, that his mother had provided them with this time alone. There was something he had been meaning to give her.

Rustling in his satchel, he extracted a small parcel wrapped in old newspapers and trussed with a piece of twine. His fingers began to tremble with excitement and nervousness.

"I have a gift for you," he told her suddenly.

The girl's head popped up off of her knees and turned towards him in surprise, rather like a startled rabbit. Her eyes were confused.

"What?"

"Here," Honorin said softly, extending the package out to her. "I meant to give it to you when we reached Paris, but now's as good a time as any."

She accepted it humbly, though she still looked a bit confused.

"You didn't have to give me a gift."

"Yes, I did." The boy smiled, his eyes merry once more. "Now, please. Open it!"

Obediently, she unravelled the twine and unfolded the inky newspaper from the rectangular shape inside. A small leather-bound journal lay in her lap a moment later, its skin a lovely dark red, like cherry-wood. The warm, sharp scent of leather filled her nose.

"Oh, Honorin..." She breathed. Tracing her forefinger over the texture of the leather cover, she admired the rose imprint stamped in the center. "It's so beautiful! Did you make this yourself?"

"Well, I did the sewing," he admitted. "But Cenn back at camp provided me with the leather and did the rose impression." Raising his fingers to his lips as he grinned, he looked positively giddy. "Turn to the first page," he urged.

As she opened the cover, she saw the curving letters of her name spread out on the page before her. Every line was beautifully penned, though she thought the handwriting looked familiar. She turned her gaze back up to the boy, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"It's my name."

He nodded earnestly.

She blinked before darting her eyes between him and the word on the page several times.

"Honorin, did you write this?" She asked slowly, her eyes wide and incredulous.

His head bobbed in excitement.

She smiled widely at him and gave a short laugh.

"How?! I thought you couldn't write."

"I can't," he affirmed. "But I copied your name from your photo. I practiced writing it over and over again until I got it correct. I think I might've memorized it in the process."

She gave a lovely lilting laugh.

"You didn't just copy how to spell my name! You've also copied the handwriting on the picture perfectly!" Her expression became more serene and she smiled at him lovingly. The thought that the first word he learned to write was her name thoroughly flattered her. "Thank you, Honorin."

That wasn't all, however.

The boy held out a pencil to her, which she accepted.

"Since that first time I saw you four years ago, Isabeau," he began. "Ever since that day my mother and I found you wandering around in the forest, I've wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could fulfill your every need. But as we've grown, I've come to realize that there are some things I will never be able to do, some needs I can never fulfill. You've wanted to know who you are for so long now and I curse myself for not knowing how to help you more. But now that you've begun this journey, I just _know_ you'll find your way. You'll learn who you were before you met us." Here he paused, his eyes glassy with emotion. "Truthfully, I'm terrified of what you might find. I'm terrified of losing you. But I desperately want you to be happy, so I truly wish you the best on this... mission of yours," he smiled warmly. "I just... I've seen just how much grief comes from forgetting. So, I made you this journal to write down what you find, what you might remember, so you'll never forget again. And I wrote your name in it so you might not forget me."

Honorin blushed and looked away in embarrassment.

Warm and gentle arms wrapped themselves around the boy's wiry frame as Isabeau clutched him to her. Tears flowed from her blue eyes and she buried her nose into his shoulder.

"Oh, Honorin," she trembled. "I could never, _ever_ forget you."

He held her and stroked a hand over her wild curls.

"Are you sure, my lady?" He chuckled. "I hear Paris often changes people."

" _My lady_?" She laughed through her tears.

"Yes, my lady. I just hope you remember when you're sitting in a mansion somewhere, your new title evident in the decadence around you, that you were always a lady to me."

"Oh, stop it, Honorin!" She blushed, pulling away slightly in order to wipe her cheeks and show him her smile. "But as for Paris changing me, don't fret. After all, I'm just going to an Opera House. What could possibly find that might change me so?"

 _Mon fifille_ \- my little one, or my little girl

 _Maman Cocotte_ \- Mother Hen

 _Mon cherie_ \- My dear/darling


	2. The First Memory

"Pardon me, monsieur," Isabeau addressed a well-dressed man walking past. "Would you-"

"Ah, get out of here you gypsy rabble!" He spat, waving a dismissive gloved hand. "I don't want any fake fortune-tellings or gaudy baubles!"

The girl stopped in her tracks and glowered at him in annoyance.

"I wasn't offering any," she stated as he walked away.

"Isabeau," Honorin said, tugging at her elbow. He pointed discretely over to a woman and child as they stood beside a street vendor, looking at the plump fruit for sale. "Let's ask them. They look kind enough."

They made their way over to the young woman and her little golden-headed son. The little boy noticed them first and tugged on his mother's skirt as he giggled with glee, pointing at the wild-looking clothing of the two youths.

" _Maman, maman_!" He exclaimed, his cherub-like cheeks rosy. " _Regarde_!"

The pretty young girl smiled at the child before catching his mother's eye.

" _Bonjour, madame_ ," Honorin greeted. "Could you please give me and my companion direc-"

The woman gasped and caught her boy's hand.

"Gustave! Come along!" Without so much as speaking to Isabeau or Honorin, she began to march away. "They're _gypsies_! They'll rob us blind!"

The little boy flashed a mournful look at the exciting-looking people behind him as he was dragged away.

The two youths stood staring after the woman and the child in disappointment.

"Well, that was rude," Isabeau stated in disgust. "What a thing for her to say!"

She clucked as she plundered a nearby bread stand and extracted one bun for herself and one for the boy beside her. He nodded in agreement as he accepted the bread and took a bite.

"I'm afraid my mother was right," he said between chews, disheartened. "Paris truly isn't very friendly towards gypsies."

"I wonder why," Isabeau sighed, savoring the buttery warmth of the bun. "We mean no harm."

"Hey! You gypsies!" It was the baker. He had an angry look on his face and a tray of fresh rolls in his hands. "You'd better pay for those!"

"Well, I suppose we should run," Isabeau sighed.

"I suppose we must."

As they fled down the cobbled street, the shrill sound of a policeman's whistle soon followed them. Street after street, they ran. Pigeons croodled and flapped up into the air as they were disturbed by the commotion and people leapt out of the way, stupidly ignoring the policeman's whistle and only concerning themselves with not being trampled.

All was fine for the two gypsies. They were smiling as they easily outran the constable, who was a portly fellow with a very red face. They bounded and leapt together through Paris, until they rounded a corner and saw two more policemen, now made alert by the sound of their colleague's whistle. They turned and locked their eyes on the two young people, their clubs in hand.

The two escapees were forced to take evasive action then. Isabeau bounded into a narrow alleyway, as did Honorin. But it only took several more moments of running for both of them to realize that they had chosen separate paths and were now fleeing through Paris on their own.

Isabeau suddenly felt afraid knowing that she was not beside the gypsy boy, but she had no time to dwell on it, since one of the policemen was still following her.

She raced on and on until she could no longer hear the whistle shrieking after her. Then she collapsed against the side of a dilapidated building and wheezed. She didn't have the faintest idea where she was. Though, she figured she was near the edge of Paris, since the Siene River was no where to be seen and she hadn't crossed over it during her flight.

Honorin.

She hoped that he had escaped safely and began to worry over how they would find each other again.

 _He knows I'm searching for the Opera Populaire_ , she reasoned. _Perhaps he'd think to ask around for it as well._

With a sigh, she pushed away from the stone building and began to make for the open street. This time, she would be more discerning about who she asked for directions.

The buttery bun was still in her hand and, while it had lost some of its warmth during her flight across Paris, it still smelled and tasted heavenly. Slowly, savoringly, she ate it.

As she rounded the large building, small white flecks began to drift from the sky. Isabeau frowned. Though it was a light snowfall, it was snowfall nonetheless. Her thoughts drifted to _Maman Cocotte_ and Lad. She hoped they would be alright.

A carnival-like melody caught her attention as she stood looking up at the sky. She turned to see an old peddler, wrapped in layers of filthy rags pushing a large crank-organ down the sidewalk toward her.

Intrigued and hopeful, she approached him.

"Pardon me, monsieur," she began meekly. "I do you know Paris well?"

"Eh? Bonjour, _jeune femme_ ," the elderly man greeted. "That I do, that I do." Suddenly, he squinted at her. "Ye look familiar. Have I seen ye before?"

"I'd be surprised. This is my first time in Paris."

"Ah, very well. Well what can I do for ye? Are ye lost?"

"I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Could you tell me the way to the Opera Populaire?"

"The Opera Populaire?!" He asked. Letting out a hoot, he began to guffaw at the young woman rather rudely.

Confused and somewhat indignant, she crossed her arms tightly and scowled at him.

"Why are you laughing at me?"

"Because yer standing in front of it!" He stated, his laughter beginning to subside.

"What?"

"The Opera Populaire!" He announced, motioning to the huge building just to their left. "Also known as Palais Garnier!"

"What?!" She looked up at the structure expectedly, only to have her face fall. "What?" She whispered. "No, no, no. This can't be right!"

Fumbling to extract her new journal from her pocket, she opened it and produced her photo from inside. She compared them. Though the picture was burned and most of the image obscured, there was no denying that there were obvious similarities, though it no longer looked so grand and regal.

"What happened to it?" She breathed, her heart growing heavy.

"You mean the fire?" The man asked. He shrugged. "Well, that would be on account of the chandelier crash, though no one knows exactly how _that_ happened. But some say that it was _him_..."

"Who?"

The old man gave a shudder that was in no way related to the snow falling around them.

"Haven't ye heard the tale?" He demanded. The girl shook her head. "Back in the opera house's more prosperous days, there was a ghost who terrorized the people there. But he also practically _ran_ the productions, tellin' the managers who would go in what role, what opera they were to perform... Some say that he even had a salary and that the managers paid him a fortune to keep 'im from causing... _accidents_." The old man's eyes sparkled with memories. "Back in my younger days, I was a little more successful. I had a wife then, a son too. Sometimes, once in a blue moon, I'd take 'em to the opera house and watch the operas. _Hannibal_ , _Faust_ , _El Muto_... But I never saw 'im." He sighed. "Then the fire..."

"How many years ago was that?"

"Er... nearly nineteen, if my mind serves me right."

"And it's still standing?"

"Ye couldn't pay anyone enough to tear that thing down. No one will enter it. They're all afeared that the Opera Ghost will lasso them and string 'em up for entering." He fell silent and gazed up at the opera house with a shudder. Then, as though he decided that it was unwise to speak about the ghost where he might hear, he began to turn away. "Well, I wish ye the best fortune, miss."

Then, the man turned and pushed his crank-organ down the street, leaving the girl to stare up at the hulking structure in dismay.

The Palais Garnier's windows were shattered and boarded up and the interior dark. It reminisced of a skull with empty sockets. The very sight depressed Isabeau to the core and tears began to well up in her eyes.

She climbed the steps of the structure slowly and stared up at its hulking form.

 _Was this it? Was this all she had come here for? Had dragged Honorin and Maman Cocotte here for?_

And what of her memories? Her past? Was there any clue to be found here? Did her parents die in the fire? Was that why the photograph had been burnt?

There were still so many unanswered questioned and it was agonizing to think that she might never discover the answers.

She laid a hand against the cold, smooth stone and sighed. Her cool eyes traced over the contours of the massive building. Truly, in its prime, it must have been stunning. What a shame that she would never be able to see it. Hanging her curly head, she began to walk along the entrance veranda and towards another cascade of stone steps.

As she passed one of the many boarded up orifices, however, a familiar scent wafted into her nostrils, faint and weak, like a dying hand reaching out for help. Though it was such a brief sensation, it stopped her in her tracks. Here eyes widened as she inhaled again.

 _What was that?_ She wondered, retracing her steps until she was directly in front of the glassless window.

The scent drifted on the wind, mild and unobtrusive. Lowering herself to her knees, she inhaled at one of the cracks between the boards, where the scent became stronger. It smelled of... must and dust and wood.

It smelled like... a memory.

More fervently, she leaned against the boards in an attempt to capture more of the scent. One of the planks of wood gave a creak, then fell away from the window frame. Isabeau froze.

A terrifying opportunity lay before her now. With one of the planks missing from the window, a small aperture had been formed. And though it was small, it was very possibly big enough for her to fit through, allowing her access into the Palais Garnier.

 _But should she wait for Honorin to accompany her?_

She pondered this for a moment more before shaking her head and gripping tightly to the journal he had given her.

Her _memories_ awaited and she would give chase for all she was worth.

Pushing her precious journal in through the hole first, she then followed immediately after. Her already ragged skirt caught on the boards for a moment, but she quickly freed herself and put her journal back in her pocket.

Raising her eyes to her surroundings, she found it nearly impossible to see. The only beams of light came from the cracks between the boards on the windows behind her. What little was illuminated was dusty, dim, and strewn with debris. Her footsteps echoed hollowly, implying that the entry corridor or where ever she was was quite large.

But the smell! It was quite strong now! The woody, damp, dusty scent was almost overpowering. Something nudged at her mind and she froze, closing her eyes, willing whatever it was to show itself. As the scent swamped her nostrils, an image flickered in her mind.

 _Black..._

 _And white..._

 _And sound... such happy, sweet sound..._

This scent... it was bringing out a memory!

She clenched her eyes shut even harder. Her head began to ache.

A piano.

A sweet voice above her singing a song she couldn't quite remember.

Isabeau was quite small. She was sitting on someone's lap.

 _"I'll teach you the piano once you're a little older, mon ange."_

She reeled as her head began to thud in protest against a memory that was supposed to have been lost. The world around her began to spin. The warmth left her limbs and she felt her forehead grow cold with sickly sweat.

" ** _My love_** ," a man's voice whispered all around her. " ** _Oh, Christine_**."

"Chri-?" She mumbled in confusion, clutching at her head.

Was this a flashback or was there actually someone in the room with her? She turned around and around, trying to see, but her vision was swimming. Stumbling forward into the darkness, she tried desperately to regain her footing, but to no avail. Suddenly, as though her world had been turned on its side, she pitched forward and fell toward the ground. But something soft caught her.

As her senses began to fade, she felt arms wrap around her and lift her into the air. The smell of her memory was so intense as she was swathed in the fabric of someone's cloak.

Just before her head lolled to one side in complete unconsciousness, a deep male voice rumbled above her.

" ** _Oh, Christine. At last, you've come back to me_**."

Translations:

 _Regarde_ \- Look

 _Jeune femme_ \- Young woman

 _Mon ange_ \- My angel


	3. The Opera Ghost

Cold.

That was the sensation that woke Isabeau. Stirring slightly, the girl found herself laying on a frigid stone floor, bathed in equally cold silver light. She had no recollection as to how she came to be there.

 _Forgetting... Again..._

Unconsciously, she reached for the journal in her pocket that Honorin had given her.

" _...so you'll never forget again..._ " He had told her.

Sitting up, she scanned her surroundings and took in the circular room around her. Tatters of red curtains accented the room and were cinched with aged golden cords thick as her wrists. Pieces of plaster and wood had fallen from the walls and littered the marble floor. Intricate portraits of people likely long-since dead clung feebly to their nails and posters of past opera productions as well as newspaper clippings were plastered to the far wall.

Her observations were cut short by the sound of a long, breathy sigh. Or maybe it was the wind. Regardless of what it might've been, she was startled by a voice a moment later. A familiar voice.

" ** _Welcome back, my love_** ," a man said slowly. " ** _Oh, how long I have waited for this day!_** "

The girl jumped to her feet and spun around, searching for the source of the voice. There was no one to be seen.

" _You're_ the one that brought me here!" She exclaimed, suddenly remembering what she had experienced before she had lost consciousness. "What do you want of me? And why do you act as though you know me?"

" ** _Oh, what a cruel jest, my love!_** " The voice cried out, sadness and a terrifying earnestness racking his voice. " ** _As if you could forget the years we spent together! But it is of no matter. This time, I will_** **make** ** _you love me. This time, you_** **won't** ** _leave me._** "

The girl's blood ran cold and she fell silent for a moment.

"Wh-what do you mean 'this time'?" She asked. "Who were you to me?"

" ** _Ah, hasn't that always been the question?_** " He responded mournfully. " ** _But you know the answer, my love. I was and remain your angel of music!_** "

"I tell you, monsieur! I do not know you!"

There was an amused, deep-throated chuckle. It sounded positively sinister.

" ** _Oh, Christine_** ," he sighed. " ** _Despite how much you might wish it, I know you could never forget me._** "

"Who's Christine?" She demanded. "I may have forgotten my past, but I know my name. And it's Isabeau!" The voice was silent at this for a moment, though whether in shock or in obstinate disbelief she did not know. "Where are you? Why are you hiding?"

" ** _My love, you_** **know** ** _why in shadow I hide_** ," he told her.

"I know no such thing! Who _are_ you?!"

" ** _Have you truly forgotten your angel already?!_** " He sounded angry. " ** _I shall show you everything and_** **make** ** _you remember! Enter through the curtain and join me._** "

Indeed, in the center of the wall opposite the door, there was a heavy red curtain on which was painted the words 'Don Juan.'

"Don Juan?" She asked. "What are you playing at?"

" ** _I am a sort of Don Juan, you know_**." His tone held a bitter grin. " ** _When a woman has seen me... she belongs to me. She loves me forever!_** "

These words frightened Isabeau more than anything else the man had said. Stumbling backwards, she turned to flee, but when she reached the only door in the room she found it completely immoveable. No matter how she pulled and twisted the handle, it wouldn't budge. A chuckle reverberated off the walls and sent a shiver down the girl's spine. It was as though he was watching her, amused with her efforts to escape. Her blue eyes combed over the room, searching for any apertures which might ensure her escape. There were none other than the door.

How had he brought her there?

Turning to face the interior of the room once more, she addressed the voice in a commanding tone.

"Let me free at once!" She cried. "I won't be kept here!"

" ** _You denied me love, and I shall deny you freedom_** ," he answered with a growl. " ** _You will never leave this place!_** "

"I disagree!"

Another deep chuckle.

" ** _I have waited decades for you to love me_** ," he told her. " ** _I can wait however long it takes for you to realize that you can't escape me_**."

Then he fell silent. The girl shivered, both with fear and with cold. She must've lost her shawl when she fainted.

Setting herself to search the room for an escape route, she checked the alcoves on either side of the antechamber: a ticket booth and a coat check. Neither of these places offered a door, window, or so much as an air vent. There was, however, a newspaper clipping that fluttered down from the wall as she passed by it that caught her interest.

 _March 5, 1896 - Chandelier Crash Kills Three_

 _Fire Devastates La Palais Garnier_

So the fire had taken place a year before she was born. Not allowing herself to dwell too much on her discovery, she tucked the clipping into her journal and continued on her current purpose.

Unwilling to admit defeat, the girl wandered the room for several more minutes, growing increasingly disheartened. The door knob was tried several more times and the curtain remained untouched. But she had a growing suspicion that the only way out would be to go forward. Still, her stubbornness forbade her from obeying the man on the other side of the curtain. So, in obstinacy, she sat with her back against the sealed door and rubbed her shivering arms.

After several minutes of silence, the man's voice resounded. It was the most authoritative she had heard it thus far.

" ** _Come to me_** ," he ordered. " ** _I am waiting._** "

The huskiness of it raked through her ears and obliged her to stand, then inch towards the curtain. She knew she had no choice. As she stood before it, tentatively considering whether or not she should pull it back, she noticed that a black airborne substance was filtering through the edges of the curtain. At first, she thought it was smoke and she became terrified that there was a fire, but it was scentless and she could feel no heat.

It was an odd sight, but she gritted her teeth and resolved not to let this bully frighten her. Grasping a handful of the heavy velvet, she pulled with all her strength and the curtain fell to the ground in a suffocating cloud of dust. Coughing for a moment, she then let out a short scream as the figure on the other side was revealed.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a dark, hooded cloak. Under his cloak, a porcelain mask covered every feature but his eyes, which were dark with a fearsome earnestness. What was most shocking, however, was the fact that the dark mist was emanating from him. It poured out from his being, obscuring his legs and making him seem... ghostly.

She gasped. At last she understood.

"You're the... the..." She stuttered, suddenly immobilized with fear.

" ** _Yes, I am your Angel of Music. I am the Phantom of the Opera_** ," he stated proudly. Slowly, regally, he extended a hand and motioned for her to approach. " ** _Come to me_** ," he rumbled, curling his fingers.

Teetering on her feet, Isabeau obeyed and walked closer until she was only a meter away. She dare not get any closer. He glided around her in slow revolutions and looked her over.

" ** _Welcome to my opera house_** ," he greeted, his tone lowering to nearly a purr. " ** _Welcome to your destiny. At last the time has come to be reunited with your Angel of Music._** " He paused behind her and whispered into her ear. " ** _Do you remember our last meeting?_** "

She trembled and shook her head, too afraid to speak to the specter.

" ** _Let me show you._** "

A terrifyingly strong hand alighted on her shoulder and held her in place as he continued speaking to her from behind. Isabeau watched in stunned wonder as a figure of smoke formed before her-a cloaked man, presumably the Phantom. He knelt on the ground pitifully.

" ** _I had reached the depths of my despair_** ," his low voice mourned from behind her. " ** _It was all over. The shadow of my death drew near_**." Suddenly, the shadowy silhouette raised his head as another figure joined him-a woman, lithe and possessing a meek posture. Slowly, the man's shape rose to his feet and reached out towards the woman beseechingly. " _You were the light in the darkness of my existence! I was your Angel of Music!_ "

 _Was that woman meant to be her?_

Another man, slimmer and more noble in stature joined the figures of fog and gently took hold of the woman's... Isebeau's hand and led her softly away. The poor Phantom's hazy figure plainly showed his despair with clenched fists as he desperately reached out after her before collapsing to his knees once again.

" ** _But... you chose him!_** " His voice hissed in her ear. The black mist disappeared and the Phantom left his position behind the girl, marching angrily ahead, not looking back at her. " ** _You left me. All was lost! The time had come to end it!_** " He exclaimed, turning to face her with a raging heat in his masked eyes.

Isabeau thought she could practically hear the crackle of fire as he continued.

" ** _My house would burn, but my spirit would not rest! One day, God willing, I would have my revenge_** ," he growled venomously.

At this, the poor girl backed away in fear.

"So... I am to be the sacrifice to your act of revenge?" She whimpered.

" ** _Oh. No, no, no_** ," the Angel of Music lamented at the sight of her eyes. " ** _You are a afraid. Never be afraid of me, Christine. No harm can befall you as long as you remain here. No, the heat of my vengeance will never scorch you. What I shall give you is no more than a mere scolding. No, in recompense, you simply may never leave this place._** "

"Oh," came the mournful sound from the girl's mouth.

" ** _Never fear, my love. For soon, you will love me and all will be right._** "

"But... I..."

What could she say? She longed to tell him how he was mistaken and that she was not this Christine he so desperately loved. But could she certainly deny it? After all, her past was a mystery to her. It was not impossible that she was older than she looked and had indeed broken this man's heart before losing all recollection of it, but she prayed that it was not so.

She fell dumb as the apparition strode powerfully towards her, extending a gloved hand. Black fog still exuded from him and his eyes were piercingly intent.

"Come with me, our journey begins now. I long to be reunited with you, but there are several things you must first do to prepare yourself and prove yourself loyal to me," he told her. "You must once again reestablish the bond we once shared when I was your Angel of Music."

Accepting his hand flinchingly, she found it to be solid matter, but cold and presence-less as smoke. She could only hope that those eyes of his which eagerly swallowed her appearance held no ill fate for her. Perhaps Honorin would come find her, but until then, she had no choice but to play along with a ghost-God save her.


End file.
